One Foot on the Ground
by camellialice
Summary: A stupid mistake, a terrible consequence, a devastated consulting detective and a lack of John Watsons.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **So, um, this is my first fic and stuff. Please be gentle. It's going to be a bit long. Neither britpicked nor beta'd.

* * *

><p><em>suppose I never ever met you<br>suppose we never fell in love  
>suppose I never ever let you<br>kiss me so sweet and so soft_  
>-"Fidelity" by Regina Spektor<p>

**Chapter One**

In retrospect, Sherlock realized that his first mistake had been the kiss.

It wasn't a particularly romantic one, at that. It had been in a fit of enlightenment, when all the facts suddenly fell into place and he'd bounded off the couch, excitedly sharing this information with John, and kissed him.

He wasn't even paying much attention to it, at the time. His mind was focused on the case and he was only dimly aware of what he was doing. John was too stunned to react or respond, and by the time he came out of it Sherlock had dashed into his room to fetch his mobile and text Lestrade.

There, Sherlock realized what he'd done and was too surprised and embarrassed to venture out of his room. John didn't bother him for the rest of the night, which was the worst part. By midnight Sherlock had convinced himself that he would never be forgiven. Yet he was proven wrong the next morning when John knocked timidly and entered with tea. They sipped in silence until Sherlock felt he might explode from the tension.

"Look, about last night—"

"Sherlock." John cut him off swiftly and firmly, and one glance at his expression confirmed that all was forgiven.

And then John surprised him with a kiss. That was the thing about John: he was full of surprises. And Sherlock wasn't easily surprised.

When they finally stopped for breath, John looked away and said slowly, "I think I love you."

And this time, Sherlock was not at all surprised to find that the feeling was mutual.

* * *

><p>Water closed on top of him and for a moment Sherlock couldn't remember how to move and he couldn't breathe but breathing's boring and then the word John flashed across his frozen brain and he reached out and grabbed John's arm. He cleared his mind and started tugging John towards the surface but John was heavy and unconscious—why was he unconscious? Suddenly they broke the surface and Sherlock gasped in the air and then coughed because it was full of dust from the rubble. And then he was shaking John and calling his name and there was a dull pain in his leg and blood spreading in the water and flashing lights and police and people everywhere…<p>

* * *

><p>His second mistake was getting comfortable.<p>

It was hard to resist, though. Life was simply not boring when John was around. Not even the worst of things, like watching those awful movies, for instance. Sherlock still made a great show of disdain and was chastised for it, but to be honest he didn't really mind sitting through James Bond. Especially not when he was curled up on the couch with John snuggled against him.

For once he found happiness outside of his work. Even in the smallest of things, like chatting over morning tea or short goodbye kisses or midday texts from John or just falling asleep, one arm wrapped around the man he loved.

It was everyday. It was pedestrian. It was… comfortable.

And Sherlock Holmes, who wasn't a normal person, who didn't understand normal people, found himself living a normal life with John Watson.

* * *

><p>He woke up in the hospital, and was automatically annoyed.<p>

He didn't like hospitals. He had no patience for them. They were inefficient and boring and the doctors were idiots. Besides, he had no need for one, now that he had John to take care of him.

He jumped out of bed, gasped at the pain, and slowly slid back under the crisp white sheets. He wished John would come get him soon and take him away, he was quite sick of the hospital… yet at the same time he felt the heavy blanket of sleep overpowering him, and blearily hoped that John would still rescue him, even if he was asleep.

* * *

><p>His third (and worst) mistake was obvious, stupid, and damning.<p>

It was also around this time that he became vaguely aware of the first two mistakes.

After all, if he hadn't let John get so close to him, they wouldn't be here. They'd be at home, perhaps, warm and safe. Not here, surrounded by snipers and explosives and danger.

For a moment the world was frozen in time, as if the universe was holding its breath waiting to see what Sherlock would do. Sherlock hadn't quite decided. He had ideas, of course, a million circling round his brain, but none of them seemed good enough. And here, pointing a gun at a bomb with both John and his lives at risk, good enough was important.

And he was running out of time.

Aah. That one plan might work. It was all about the timing. He calculated in his head how much time he'd have to grab John and dive into the pool, and it wasn't a lot.

He looked up at John, and their eyes connected. For once they really truly saw each other in a way they never had before and Sherlock knew just how much John trusted him. And loved him.

He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

And too many shots rang out before the building crumpled.

* * *

><p>He woke up and saw the doctor and tried to pretend he was still asleep but failed. He was forced to listen to boring facts and figures about his condition, what he was and wasn't allowed to do, and when he could go home.<p>

Home. The word alone triggered a deluge of emotions, memories, love, worry, anxiety, fear. He felt a pressing urgency and interrupted the doctor.

"Where's John?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The funeral was hell.

He felt terribly out of place, surrounded by sobbing relatives he'd never met and strangers that had gone to school with John. And these people kept coming to him with their sympathy and nostalgic stories, and he couldn't stand it.

He realized he should be more like them, that people expected him to be more like them, but he felt too numb to put up a façade. Besides, he didn't much care about their expectations of them. There was only one person he might have done that for unless it was for a case, and that person was dead.

Dead. It felt surreal. It was wrong. He couldn't be dead; he was not the sort of person that Sherlock associates with death. Everyone dies, of course, they die and then they go to St. Bart's and then some of them end up in pieces in Sherlock's microwave. But John was alive, defiantly so, his mere presence made Sherlock feel alive. And yet there he laid, just a corpse, like the cadavers Sherlock deals with so often and impersonally.

And it was all Sherlock's fault.

He'd made mistakes before, of course. Everyone does, although Sherlock tends to make fewer than most people. But this time he'd made a colossal mistake, one he'd never forgive himself for, and it had cost him John.

There was John's mother, dressed all in black and rather resembling her late son. And Clara comforting Harry. And a passel of weeping ex-girlfriends.

John had a lot of ex-girlfriends.

An old army buddy accosted Sherlock and grabbed his forearm, causing him to wince at the sudden human contact. As the man droned on about how brave John had been in Afghanistan Sherlock felt himself drifting away into his mind, past Sunday evenings in front of the telly and stolen kisses in the morgue, to the paper he'd been writing on tobacco ashes. This was safe. Cold, hard facts were safe. He could manage this, pretending to listen to the sentimental veteran and running through the charts in his head.

More people came to talk to him and he moved past the tobacco ashes into the book he'd been reading on snake venom, then the effects of chemicals used in women's hair dyes. It was only when he reached an article about explosions that his mind buckled and he was overwhelmed by the memory of falling plaster and shouts and holding John's body in the pool, watching blood gush out of the hole in John's chest and swirl through the water.

"Are you okay?" asked the woman in front of him. He shook the memory out of his mind and concentrated on her. She was boring. Blond hair, terrible dye job. Done a week and a half ago and her roots were already showing. Likely to impress her husband, judging by the state of her wedding ring. He didn't want to talk to her, he didn't want her to know whether or not he was okay.

But he couldn't be rude. John would yell at him—maybe not in front of everyone, but certainly later.

But John was gone.

"Fine. It's just…" He struggled for something to say to her. What would she relate to? "I miss him so much."

Her eyes widened with sympathy and he saw the prick of tears in the corners of her eyes. "Of course."

"I need some air, if you don't mind."

"Of course not."

Once the door was shut behind him he dashed out of the building and gasped in the fresh air. This was exactly when John would take hold of his arm and look up at him with such concern and say exactly the right thing.

But John was gone.

John was gone and it was all his fault.

And suddenly nothing mattered more than to get away from this place, these people, this corpse that wasn't John anymore. He hailed a cab and climbed inside and took refuge in the darkness, before they pulled up at the flat that wasn't home anymore and he trudged inside 221B and sat at the kitchen table in the dark for ages.

This was when John would make tea.

But John was gone.

He pondered this for a while and then slowly got up, and slowly went through the steps, exactly as John would have done it. He set the kettle to boil and got out the mug and encountered his first problem when he realized he didn't know where the teabags were kept. After some searching he procured one and finished preparing the tea. He set the mug on the table and went over to the fridge, opened it, and stared inside.

They were out of milk.

For the second time that week, Sherlock Holmes felt his world fall to pieces.

* * *

><p>It was almost depressing how much more difficult it was for Sherlock Holmes to resume his life with a lack of John Watson.<p>

Aside from the obvious gaping hole he'd left, there were little difficulties. Like the matter of buying milk, a task that Sherlock was not used to and was entirely unprepared for. Or when he absent-mindedly checked John's blog for updates. Or when he texted John to bring him a pen and then waited a full hour before remembering.

He resumed his work, though it wasn't easy. The first time Lestrade stopped by, Sherlock had told him irritably, "It was the secretary," and shut the door on him before he'd even said anything. He wasn't even positive it was the secretary- he would need to confirm that she wore blue nail polish, but then he'd be certain. But at that moment, it occurred to him that it simply didn't matter at all whether or not she wore blue nail polish, or even that she was caught. He no longer cared.

But three days later he got sick of staring at the ceiling and realized that he needed a distraction more than anything else, or at least an excuse to escape the flat. He met Lestrade at the station, inspected the suspect's nails (they were blue) and solved the case.

Lestrade was grateful as always but gave him no special treatment, a quality that Sherlock admired greatly in the man. No one else seemed capable of treating him normally. Donovan replaced name-calling with sympathetic expressions, and Anderson avoided him entirely. As much as he enjoyed not having Anderson around, it irritated him greatly. How was he supposed to get on with his life and distract himself while these idiots kept reminding him of what was missing?

Even Mycroft was there for him, which was alarming. Sherlock came home one day to find a cup of tea prepared for him, which filled him with irrational joy and hope, until he saw Mycroft sitting on the couch.

"What is the reason for this inconsiderate invasion of privacy?"

"You know perfectly well."

Sherlock didn't honor this with a response.

"Mummy's terribly worried about you." Of course she was.

"Tell her I'm fine."

"I will." Silence. Mycroft toyed with his umbrella. That damned umbrella. "Are you, though?"

"Yes," Sherlock said stiffly.

"I'm not an idiot."

"Neither am I."

"You're being childish."

"So are you." It was a poor response, Sherlock admitted. But oh well.

Mycroft leaned forward earnestly. "Is there anything I can get for you? Anything I can do to make it easier?"

"Get me a time machine," Sherlock snarled, and reached for his violin.

"Sherlock, I am trying to be brotherly."

"And it doesn't suit you." They glared at each other for a bit, and Sherlock felt a bit better. This, at least, was normal.

"Very well. Now, I have a case which I thought might interest you—"

"Don't you need to get back to the government? I'm sure things are simply falling apart without you."

"They can manage without me for an hour, but point taken. I expect I shall see you again sometime?"

Sherlock ignored him, but gestured toward the door with his bow. Mycroft nodded in response, picked up his umbrella, and left.

John would have said something graceful to ease the tension, Sherlock realized. How did he ever manage without him?

He typed up the results of the case and stared at the screen. What might John have called it? The Adventure of the Secretary's Nails? A Study in Blue?

Mrs. Hudson bustled in and squealed at the bullet holes in the wall. Sherlock smiled to himself. This was normal. He closed up the laptop as she warned him that "This'll go on your rent, young man," or something along those lines, like she always said. He patted her on the arm playfully as he swept by her to get his coat.

"Where are you going out to?"

"Dinner. Indian restaurant. Lovely samosas, as well as a potential case brewing." He kissed her on the cheek and tied his scarf on his way to the door. Yet he was startled by her sudden silence, normally she'd say goodbye or such before he went out. He turned and saw that she still stood at the top of the steps, watching him.

"I miss him too, " she said. She'd seen through everything: the smiles, the playfulness, the sudden interest in Indian food.

"I know," he said, and after a pause, stepped outside.

He didn't go to the restaurant. He'd never considered going to the restaurant. Instead he wandered the streets of London, breathing in the air that didn't smell of John and regrets and trying not to think, a task that was almost impossible to Sherlock Holmes. He visited streets he hadn't been to in years, trying to memorize the sights and smells and the feeling of the concrete under his feet, solid and cold. Gradually the light faded and the lamps turned on but Sherlock continued to walk, placing one foot before the other: a repetitive, comforting motion.

It occurred to him that out of all the people he associated with, including the entire police station and even his own brother, only his landlady came the closest to understanding him, almost as well as John.

This was normal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock Holmes didn't miss people.

This was no great tragedy, because people didn't miss him either. They came and went, in and out of his life, leaving no great impression or attachment. They found him strange and freakish, he found them boring. Occasionally there were people who Sherlock didn't mind, rarer still people whose company he appreciated.

Not that he hated people. On the whole, Sherlock thought humans were fascinating. The way their minds worked, the things they did, their motivations… all these he admired and studied. But most individuals he found dull.

Therefore John Watson was an anomaly. Sherlock appreciated his company greatly and even sought him out as a companion. He found John to be dull almost never and felt himself to be happier around him.

He liked the way John never ceased to be amazed when Sherlock observed the small details that had flown over his head, which was not a rare occurrence. He liked the way John always managed to gracefully cover for him when he made tactless social errors. He liked the way John unfailingly made tea every morning, and always managed to get the milk—a feat which Sherlock never fully appreciated until he once tried to do it himself. He liked the way John had the same breakfast every morning (two slices of toast with jam) and yet was still full of surprises. He liked John's silly jumpers, his complaints when he stumbled over Sherlock's experiments, the way John had to stand on his tiptoes to kiss him.

He loved John.

And he missed him.

He found that, more than anything, he wanted John back. Which was impossible. John was gone. He was dead and buried and was not coming back to life, not even if Sherlock was too busy to get his phone on his own.

He was in the lab examining blood samples when his mobile buzzed. He barely noticed it at the time, he was concentrating too hard on the blood to notice anything else. The case itself was an interesting one, although nowhere near the challenges Moriarty had given him. It was undoubtedly a good thing Moriarty was dead, especially considering what he'd done to John, but Sherlock couldn't help but admire how good he'd been at relieving boredom.

It was not until an hour later that he pulled the phone out of his pocket and noticed he had a new message, and groaned when he saw it was from Mycroft.

_No luck on the time machine front. Are you sure you don't want to take the case?_

_MH_

He typed a quick reply and pocketed the phone.

_Sorry about the dentist, and yes. I don't want the case._

_SH_

On the cab ride back to Baker Street he mused on the message. "Get me a time machine," he'd snarled at Mycroft. A time machine. He'd forgotten entirely about the comment, it had been sarcastic and nothing more. But it was an interesting proposal. He'd never even considered time travel, he'd assumed it couldn't be done. Improbable? Yes. Impossible? Maybe not.

John would have laughed, he would have been astounded, he would have been shocked that Sherlock was even considering it.

But Sherlock didn't necessarily care, because all of a sudden the most important thing in the world became finding a means of getting John Watson back.

And so he'd need a time machine.

* * *

><p>"A time machine." It wasn't a question, more like an astonished repetition. Sherlock didn't understand why that was necessary, why people repeated each other when they didn't understand. But he certainly didn't care that Donovan hadn't understood, he hadn't expected her to. That didn't keep her from commenting on it. "You can't be serious."<p>

Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade, who simply buried his face in his hands.

"Dear god, we should have seen it coming," Anderson snarked. "Sherlock Holmes has finally gone round the bend."

"At least he's not offing people," Donovan supplied.

"Can we still put him away for it, though?"

"Shut up, you two, and you should really stop shagging while Anderson's wife is home," Sherlock growled, and stalked away. Idiots. Lestrade glanced at the frozen couple and, sighing, went after Sherlock.

"You're not seriously building a time machine, are you?"

"That's what I said."

"Sherlock, I know you're bloody brilliant and everything, but that's simply impossible."

"Improbable," Sherlock corrected.

"Look." Lestrade stopped in front of him and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was tired, he must have had custody of the kids this weekend and it was exhausting him. Sherlock also detected some annoyance directed at himself, but couldn't possibly understand why. Was it because of the time machine? Honestly, why was that such a big deal? "Look, I know you miss John and I know it's hard to get on without him—we all miss him too—but you've got to let him go."

Sherlock simply looked at him. How was someone this thick a detective inspector? Let John go? Never.

He felt angry with himself for even admitting his plan in the first place, and now he was a laughingstock, and he didn't understand why. John would have explained to him, of course. It was too complicated for him to understand on his own.

He walked away and hailed a cab, ignoring Lestrade's protests until the DI caught up with him and grabbed his sleeve. Sherlock flinched automatically and pulled away, but reluctantly gave Lestrade his attention. For 30 seconds at most.

"You can't just run off. I'm sorry if you're upset, but we need you—"

"The sister," Sherlock snapped and left without looking back.

* * *

><p>Building a time machine turned out to be not quite as easy as anticipated.<p>

Obviously it wouldn't have been simple, but Sherlock had estimated it would only take a week at most. This… this was surely longer than a week. He had no idea exactly how long it had been, as he kept the curtains closed and slowly lost track of the passing of time. His mobile had buzzed innumerable times and Mrs. Hudson had knocked tentatively at least thrice, but it had been forever since Sherlock had looked up from his work long enough to glance at a clock.

His eyes were heavy for want of sleep and his stomach growled and it was all so infuriatingly petty and human. He wished his body could understand the significance of what his mind was working on, that dull things such as exhaustion and borborygmus merited no attention in comparison to the possibility of getting John back.

John wouldn't have let him go this long without food or sleep. Sherlock kept trying to push that thought out of his head, but it kept coming back, like a stubborn and painful boomerang. Instead he focused on the work, which was still frustrating and difficult, more so than any experiment Sherlock had ever attempted. Especially with all of the silly human needs his body screamed for.

At one point Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door again (why couldn't she just leave him alone?) and called, "You haven't eaten any of the food I made for you, dear." Sherlock waited for her footsteps to fade away before he sighed.

That's approximately when he passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

He was lying on the sofa, which he certainly hadn't been doing a moment ago, because he'd been working—hadn't he? It was a moment ago, wasn't it? It hadn't felt like any time had passed, but surely it must have, he was lying on the sofa and there was a blanked tossed over him and the curtains were open, allowing sunlight to stream in through the windows. Bloody hell. What on earth was he doing sleeping, when he should be working? He cursed himself for his laziness and sat up, swinging his legs out from under the blanket, and that's when he saw Mycroft.

Who certainly hadn't been there a moment ago.

Sherlock cursed heaven and earth and everything he could possibly think of, as well as himself again, for good measure.

He was already sitting up, so there was no point in pretending to be asleep. He took the only available option left.

"Get out of my flat."

Mycroft just looked at him, and went back to toying with his umbrella. He was sitting on John's chair. Damn him. Damn him to hell and beyond.

Sherlock repeated himself, as if he was speaking to a slow child. "Get out of my flat."

"You haven't been taking care of yourself, dear brother. You fainted."

Sherlock glared at him. As if it wasn't embarrassing enough, Mycroft's tone made it sound like he was a princess in some horrid fantasy tale. He heard the clicking of manicured nails on a plastic keyboard, and groaned. Mycroft's dimwitted assistant must've been here as well, witnessing this whole dreaded encounter. Could this day get any worse?

"What's she doing here?" he asked, well aware that he sounded like a petulant child.

"Oh, she's not even listening."

"Not at all," the assistant affirmed.

"I'm not going to talk to you if she's here," Sherlock snapped. That probably didn't help the petulant-child image.

"Fine. Dorothy, please wait in the car."

Dorothy wasn't her name. Obviously. She smirked and left, still tapping away at her Blackberry.

"Now, Sherlock. We need to talk."

"We need nothing of the sort."

"I didn't realize you were so serious about this whole time-travel endeavor."

"How did you even know I'd—I'd passed out?" He was careful to avoid the use of the term, "fainted."

"I have my methods. Science has proved time travel impossible, you realize."

Sherlock snorted. Idiots.

"But I realize nothing will dissuade you from this."

Sherlock blinked. Mycroft got some things right, at least.

"All I ask, dear brother, is that you take care of yourself. Sleep. Eat. That sort of thing."

He considered this carefully. "Will you leave my flat?"

"I'm going now." Mycroft rose with a flourish and twirled away, pausing as he passed the attempted time machine. He inspected it carefully, making little comments that Sherlock tried his best not to hear, and tweaked one corner in a means that was probably meant to be subtle. No matter, Sherlock could fix it later. He stared pointedly at the wall until he heard the door slam behind his brother, then got up.

He didn't, in fact, fix what Mycroft had tweaked. Instead he inspected his work thus far and decided, for the sake of efficiency, to move it from the floor to the kitchen table. This took a considerable amount of effort, considering he had to clear the table, which was currently cluttered with papers and notes and a human foot (female, 34 years, green nail polish).

Once the machine was situated on the table he reluctantly admitted to himself that Mycroft's interference may have been a minor improvement to the machine. He distracted himself by venturing out of the flat for the first time in who-knows-how-long to fetch parts from St. Bart's to test the machine with.

Molly greeted him shyly as always, but did little to hide her surprise at his disheveled appearance. He asked for spare parts and she made a small joke which he pretended to laugh at, then asked if he could use a foot. Something in the back of his mind poked him gently, and as he was fighting to remember what it was Molly reappeared with the foot.

It was from a woman. Aged 34. With green nail polish.

Molly was apologizing for the polish but Sherlock scarcely heard her. He mumbled a half-baked apology and ran from the morgue, hailing a cab and then dashing up the steps to the flat. He threw the door open and stared from the foot to the machine, his mind racing at a million miles per hour.

He had no idea how the machine worked, or why it worked, but nothing mattered more than trying, than fiddling with buttons and gears and even occasionally shaking the machine out of frustration. Then everything went dark.

At first Sherlock wondered if he was dead. Then he wondered if, since he was dead, he might see John.

A voice came floating towards him. Mike Stamford's.

"Sorry. Mine's in my coat."

The scene before him slowly blurred into focus. His lab in St. Bart's. He knew where he was, he knew when he was, he knew who he'd see if he turned his head. The time machine had worked. Every nerve inside of him seemed to be tingling with a mix of excitement and anxiety and terror, and his head felt surprisingly light.

"Here," said a voice, a wonderfully beautiful and familiar voice, a voice Sherlock hadn't heard in far too long. "You can use mine."

He couldn't wait any longer, he turned his head and saw the man he'd waited so long to see. John Watson, beautiful, adorable, brave John Watson was standing before him, offering his phone. John Watson, alive.

"Oh," he said, pretending that his insides weren't on fire and he didn't feel like screaming with joy, "Thank you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It was startling how different everything suddenly was. Sherlock had, admittedly, gotten use to lonliness on cases, to silence after his deductions, to working by himself and uninterrupted.

So when John said, "That was amazing," Sherlock almost jumped.

"You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock felt warmth spreading from his heart and he was overcome by a sudden urge (although not unfamiliar) to hug John Watson as if his life depended on it. He turned to the window instead.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

Sherlock smiled to himself, unable to contain it much longer. "Piss off."

And because Sherlock simply couldn't help it, he showed off more at that crime scene than he had in months.

* * *

><p>The case was different than he had remembered, which was odd. He normally didn't get data wrong. He thought he had remembered this one, but maybe his facts were wrong. Impossible. He could have sworn that last time there had only been three murders.<p>

He concentrated on this to avoid concentrating on John, adding an extra patch to distract himself. And then another. They weren't very distracting.

Sherlock gave up and texted John.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._

_SH_

It was selfish and stupid, but Sherlock couldn't bear to have John so far from him (and in Mycroft's company, no less) when he'd only just gotten him back. The thought made his stomach churn and he simply needed to see John's face again, the little smile that he'd only just begun to see again.

Sherlock was also impatient. Maybe his text had been too polite.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_SH_

No response yet. He glared at the screen. John normally at least texted to let Sherlock know he was on his way.

But John wasn't John quite yet—the things he "normally" did were not yet normal. It was a tricky concept for Sherlock to wrap his head around.

And John wasn't back yet. What could make him come?

_Could be dangerous._

_SH_

Eventually John rushed in, looking for an emergency, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. When John asked him what he needed, he realized that he hadn't thought that part through, and concocted a half-baked scheme involving text messages. But that didn't matter. John was back.

Normally John would berate him for being too possessive, but Sherlock figured this should count as a special circumstance.

* * *

><p>Sherlock managed to get John to come on one last date with him (without using that terminology, of course) where John asked the inevitably awkward question of Sherlock's relationship status. He wondered if John counted as having a boyfriend.<p>

Of course not. That was over. Technically, it hadn't happened.

Sherlock wanted to say no. He wanted to say, "No, I have no one, I'm unattached, just like you, please kiss me now."

Instead Sherlock said he was married to his work, and devoted the rest of the night to proving the limp was psychosomatic to make up for the pang in his heart.

* * *

><p>It was admittedly a surprise that the cabbie came to Baker Street. Maybe Sherlock was losing his mind. Or his memory. Or both. But he could have sworn that there had only been three murders, and he'd solved it before things got out of hand. Maybe he'd been close to solving it, that day in St. Bart's. He had been distracted when John came in. Maybe it was all his fault that the fourth happened.<p>

But speculation was silly. And besides, it didn't matter at the moment.

The pills hadn't been a surprise in the least, all though it was entertaining to actually talk to the cabbie. He was working for someone, he said, and it struck Sherlock immediately that it might be Moriarty, and he'd felt his fists clench involuntarily.

The choice of location was interesting. He didn't admit it to the cabbie, but it wasn't a boring setting for a murder.

But all of these surprises were nothing, nothing at all, compared to the realization of what John had done for him. He almost felt as he'd been hit by a train- which was an expression he'd never fully understood, as he'd never been hit by a train personally (the incident in his first case didn't count), but the discovery was as surprising as a physical blow.

John. Gentle, loving, caring John. John who'd only met him, what, yesterday?

John had saved his life, and killed a man. Killed a man to save his life.

Some things never changed. And John Watson would never cease to surprise and amaze Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't understand why he found the time machine under his bed, and at first he was too annoyed that he hadn't found the missing pidgeon liver under his bed to even register the presence of the machine. It was only hours later that it occurred to him and he left in the middle of John's favorite show to figure it out.<p>

It made no sense for it to have traveled back with him, but there it was. He sat on the floor staring at it while John yelled something about a doctor and why Sherlock should come back to the telly immediately. He tuned him out and focused on the issue presented by the makeshift device and came to one conclusion: John must not know.

He found a spot to hide it in the closet and prayed John would never find it. It was a safe location, as John tended to avoid Sherlock's bedroom the way Sherlock avoided buying milk. Then he returned to the sofa where John explained what he'd missed and understood none of what was said to him. As usual.

Things had become comfortable. Things were normal. Sherlock and John bickered in the way that caused the entire police force to refer to them as "the old married couple," a phrase which caused John to blush and protest and Sherlock to die a little inside.

They weren't a couple. They would never be a couple.

It was simple. Moriarty was a threat. Moriarty attacked anyone who got close to Sherlock. Ergo, Sherlock couldn't allow anyone, not even John, to get too close to him.

Especially not John.

He allowed himself little indulgences, like accidentally brushing his hand past John's too many times, or standing closer than most people would, or interrupting all of his dates with Sarah. But he knew that this time, John would probably end up with Sarah eventually, and maybe he'd live a happy and domestic life away from Sherlock and all the dangers he posed.

"I'm going to bed," John said. Sherlock grunted a response, and then realized John was watching him.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just… do you need tea or anything?

"Tea? No."

"Okay." John continued to linger as if he had more to say. His eventual half-hearted attempt at conversation was, "Good episode, wasn't it?"

"I suppose."

"Sherlock, it wouldn't hurt my feelings if you just said you don't like the show."

"I don't mind it."

"Come off it. You probably think the whole idea of time travel is ridiculous."

"Not as ridiculous as the bowtie."

At least they were smiling now. Sherlock had another urge to kiss John and turned away.

"You'd better get your rest, we're going to the morgue first thing tomorrow."

"Oh? Are we?"

"Yes, I've got a promising case."

"How lovely. Thanks for the advance warning."

"You're welcome."

Sherlock returned his gaze to his laptop, reciprocated John's "Goodnight," and spent the next eight hours reminding himself that it was better to have a John who he couldn't kiss than no John whatsoever.


	6. Chapter 6

*A.N: Sorry this is so late (and short). Been busy lately, but I'll try to update more regularly.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

One day John looked up at Sherlock and asked him, very quietly and calculatedly, as if he'd been practicing in his head, if he'd ever been in love.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day playing the violin in his room.

It was painful, certainly, but Sherlock had learned to brush that kind of pain away. Breaking his own heart day after day meant nothing as long as it would keep John alive. To lose John again would be worse than breaking his heart, it would be like breaking his soul. Or a half of him. Or something. Sherlock wasn't very poetic.

And as much as it pained him to see the hurt expression on John's beautiful face, he never regretted his time-travelling adventure. The moments of angst and heartbreak were few compared to the moments when Sherlock looked over at John and felt his heart swell.

Like when John posted lengthy blog posts about Sherlock's genius, and Sherlock smiled to himself as he chastised him on his exaggeration. Or when Sherlock came to the kitchen in the morning and saw John making tea in his pajamas, his hair sticking up in all directions, and felt like the whole day had already improved remarkably. Or that time when John had simply _insisted_ on getting ice cream after the case and had smeared some chocolate on his nose. The image had been too adorable for words.

So despite the nagging fact that Sherlock could never truly tell John how much he meant, John's presence made Sherlock indescribably happy. Having John back was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Life was perfect.

Which probably should have been a warning sign that everything was about to go to shit.

* * *

><p>From the moment Moriarty began his little "game" Sherlock was on guard. He remembered all too well what had happened last time, when Moriarty had convinced John that he had kidnapped Harry, and John had run to rescue his sister only to find a trap. And Sherlock hadn't been able to save him.<p>

This time, though, Sherlock planned ahead. He reasoned that Moriarty most likely wanted the Bruce-Partington plans, the ones he hadn't been able to recover before the Incident last time, and so he ensured that he got them this time. He kept John by his side and Mrs. Hudson under watch from the police (useless as they were) and did all he could to keep things normal.

The important thing, first of all, was to keep John safe. This was difficult, because John was impossibly brave and stupid and did his best to risk his life as often as possible for the greater good. Sherlock found this infuriating. He never said so, of course, but somehow John seemed to notice that all was not well.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Oops. He'd said that a bit to quickly.

John sighed in exasperation and put his book down. "You've been glaring at me for the past five minutes."

"Nothing. I probably need sleep."

John gaped at him. "You… sleep?"

"Most humans do, I hear," Sherlock replied dryly, uncurling himself from the sofa. John merely stared after him as he crossed over towards his bedroom. He was too full of panic and fear and worry to sit in the same room as John for too long.

His nightmare that night was one of the worst he'd had since John died. As always, it took place in the swimming pool, but this time as Sherlock clutched the bloody body of his lover John Watson slowly began to fade. Crimson continued to swirl out in the water around the pair and Moriarty crawled out from under the rubble and giggled as John lost his opacity. Sherlock couldn't hear what he was screaming and the water had turned scarlet and it almost looked like John gasped for air but then he was gone and Sherlock was left groping at the empty air and bloody water in front of him, all alone.

The next morning he knew he would have to confront Moriarty.

* * *

><p>The plan was simple enough. Sherlock would seem entertained and safe enough for John to go to Sarah's, which was a very safe location, no matter Sherlock's qualms about John and Sarah together. This task was accomplished with the use of crap telly, and Sherlock almost found it harder to appear engaged in the rubbish than anything else. But the moment John was out the door, Sherlock grabbed his laptop, sent a message to Moriarty, and the plan was in motion.<p>

What could go wrong?

* * *

><p>A lot, actually. Sure, the cabbie was fine driving the strange dark-haired man to a pool at midnight, and sure, the athletic center was easy enough to break into, but as he walked down the tiled corridor Sherlock felt his mind running through all the possible scenarios and subconsciously calculating the percentage of which would end up with him or John dead.<p>

John had better stay at Sarah's.

And then Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped through the doors into the room which had infiltrated so far into his memories and dreams. He announced his presence and twirled around, feigning confidence and preparing to meet his worst enemy, the man he hated above all else (even Anderson), the one who had taken his lover and his life away from him.

He expected the gratingly playful voice he dreaded. He expected the obnoxious high-pitched giggle. He did not expect what he actually heard.

"Hello," said John Watson.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Sherlock's heart crashed through his upper cavity and past his stomach and maybe even down to his feet where it shattered into a billion pieces.

Fuck.

Even before John opened his coat to reveal the bomb strapped to him Sherlock knew what he would see there, but it didn't stop the revelation from hurting even more.

He'd failed. He'd utterly and completely failed.

This was what it had all been for, waiting forever and inventing a time machine and nearly killing himself in the process and then spending months pretending he wasn't in love with John, all to prevent this from happening.

It was possibly worse than the first time John died because of him, because this time he should have seen it coming. He should have been able to prevent it.

And then Moriarty the puppetmaster appeared, and it was almost like one of the scenes from Sherlock's nightmares. Everything he dreaded and feared stood before him: John Watson in danger, Moriarty the villain, and the damned pool.

Moriarty had played his game, and Sherlock had lost.

He was only dimly aware of what he was going on, so he assumed Moriarty was simply making the same threats and boasts he had before. His brilliant mind, so used to racing a million miles per hour faster than anyone else, now crept along at a sluggish pace, processing only one thought: "I lost. I failed."

Worst of all, at one point John threw himself at Moriarty, as if he'd rather risk himself to kill him than let Sherlock get hurt. This made Sherlock's stomach lurch and stirred him out of his shock and he wanted to scream "No you can't you don't understand I'd rather die a million times than see you die again I can't live without you stop now," but instead tightened his grip on the revolver.

And then Moriarty said he'd burn the heart out of Sherlock and Sherlock knew he was talking about John and wondered if he knew he had already and everything hurt and—

And Moriarty was gone.

Sherlock blinked.

He was gone. It was over.

But John staggered and Sherlock ran over to him and ripped the horrid explosives off of him and flung them as far away as he could. He was shaking all over and could barely stand and the dam which had been holding his emotions back and keeping him numb suddenly broke and he almost toppled from the weight of the fear and pain and sudden relief.

He babbled something at John but had no idea what was coming out his mouth, he may well have been confessing his undying love for all he knew. Everything was over.

It was over.

John cracked a weak joke and a huge weight left Sherlock's chest and—

It wasn't, in fact, over.

"Sorry, boys! I'm soooo changeable!" Sherlock closed his eyes. Fuck. "It is a weakness with me. But to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." John looked up at Sherlock, terrified, and Sherlock hated himself. "I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Red dots were already floating on both of them, dancing around like the light from the laser pointer Sherlock had used to tease his cat when he was a child.

John reminded him of a cat, the way he stretched when he yawned and ignored Sherlock when he was mad at him and most of all because he was so adorable.

So this was it. They were trapped.

Life tends to move in circles, Sherlock mused. You spend forever and a day trying to prevent what's going to happen, and it happens anyway. There was probably a moral here. Sherlock hated morals.

So he knew already what he was going to say when he said, "Then my answer has already crossed yours." And he knew already what he was going to do when he raised the revolver.

There was no alternative. He, Sherlock Holmes, the genius who could think his way out of almost any situacion, had no alternative.

If anything, he'd have to try to save John. By no means could this turn out like last time. If he was stranded alone in the world again, he'd kill himself.

If he'd known things were destined to turn out like this no matter what, he'd have told John he loved him, at least. He'd have kissed those beautiful lips one last time, traced his finger across the delicate tissue of his scarred shoulder.

But it was over.

Moriarty's brow creased as he looked from Sherlock and the gun to the explosives on the floor.

Sherlock took one last deep breath and—

"Or we could settle this."

Sherlock looked up. Moriarty was smirking. John looked confused.

"I have something you want. You have something I want. We could make a trade."

"What do I have that you want?"

"Come now, Sherlock, don't be silly. You have a time machine. How could I not want that?"

Sherlock ignored the look on John's did he know? "In exchange for…?"

"The life of John Watson."

The words hung in the air. John's expression changed from bewildered to worried in a second. Very softly, he said, "Sherlock, no."

"What do you say?"

"Sherlock, don't."

"One time machine to save John Watson."

"Sherlock, please."

John had risen to his feet and was stepping forward. More red lasers were trained on him, and he stopped in his tracks and just looked at Sherlock, his eyes begging. Sherlock did his best to ignore. It was difficult.

A time machine to save John Watson.

It wasn't over.

"I don't have the time machine with me."

Moriarty waved away the concern. "Doesn't matter, dearie. But I'm so glad you've decided to come round. Like I said, people are so sentimental. But please, your gun."

Sherlock tightened his grip. He still didn't trust him.

"I'm not going to shoot you with it. I don't even want it. Be reasonable, Sherlock. Just set it on the ground. Or I might slip and your pet might accidentally get shot."

Sherlock lowered the revolver to the floor.

"Much better. And now we can talk. So you agree, do you? I can have your time machine, and you can have your boyfriend."

Thank god John wasn't stupid enough to correct him now.

"I'll be on my way, and you won't have to bother with me. And I promise he won't get hurt. Shake on it?"

He reached out his hand. It would be stupid to take it. If Moriarty was given a time machine, the world might fall apart. It would be idiotic and irresponsible for Sherlock to give him that kind of power.

But if it was to save John, then there was really no question.

He reached out his hand as well, and the world exploded.

The sound hit him first, and he saw Moriarty get thrown into the air out of the corner of his eye and turned around as everything crumpled in slow motion around him.

And the body of John Watson hit him like a ton of bricks.


	8. Chapter 8

*A.N: Eee last chapter! Thanks everyone for reading!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

Sherlock stumbled backwards and fell into the water and

_Water closed on top of him and all of a sudden he felt nothing, not the pain in his leg or the panic over John and the world fell silent as the water filled his ears and he could only vaguely see the ceiling of the pool miles above the surface and what about John oh God_

John was floating next to him, a dark mass surrounded by blue and Sherlock did his best to grab him but he was lightheaded and how long had he been underwater, had it been years yet? His limbs felt heavy but he kicked and

_ Burst through the surface of the water and dusty air filled his lungs and he almost choked and everything was blurry and broken and his leg hurt and_

John was next to him and Sherlock's arms were wrapped around his waist but that didn't matter because John was there and solid and oh God don't let him be dead again and

_ There was scarlet spreading out in ripples around them, swirling with the water and John wasn't moving and_

Sherlock was shaking him and

_Calling his name and_

He felt like he might be sick and

_John still wasn't moving, just dead weight in his arms, and_

John opened his eyes and said, "Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock blinked.

"You're alive," he tried to say, but couldn't tell if it came out coherently.

"Yes, I am. We made it."

There was no blood in the water, no hole in John's chest, no reason for him to not be here in front of him, alive. Sherlock grabbed John's face in his hands and might have been crying but he couldn't tell because his face was wet already and John was here and alive and alive and breathing.

And then there were sirens in the distance and John and Sherlock helped each other climb out of the pool and walked through the rubble together, the dry dust hanging on to their soaked clothes, and reached the police and ambulances and flashing lights and Sherlock said, "Don't leave me," and John said, "I won't," and it was finally over.

* * *

><p>And then later, it was a bit embarrassing.<p>

Sherlock destroyed the time machine without hesitation the moment they were allowed to go home and John said nothing, but sat watching from his chair. Then Sherlock sprawled himself on the sofa and they sat there in uncomfortable silence for twenty-three minutes.

"Okay, you've got questions."

"Why yes, in fact. Why the hell did you have a time machine?"

Sherlock sighed. No use lying now.

It was a bit of a long story, but Sherlock managed to make it considerably shorter by editing out all of the bits that mentioned how they had been in love. It was only fair, after all. John didn't need Sherlock to decide how he felt about things.

Afterwards, John was a bit stunned and kept asking questions like, "How did you know how to build a time machine?" The only one Sherlock found difficult to answer was the one about why he'd decided to go back in time because John was dead, and all he could think of to say was, "Because you're important."

John looked at him a bit. "I'll go make tea then."

"Exactly," Sherlock said as John stood. "That's why you're important. When I was living without you I couldn't make tea."

"Of course not," John replied from the kitchen.

Sherlock lay on the sofa and thought. Moriarty was missing. John was alive. For the first time in months, he didn't know what came next.

It could be anything.

John was standing above him with two mugs of tea and placed one on the coffee table for Sherlock. They sipped in silence for two minutes before John set down his mug and said, "Please tell me the truth."

Sherlock was so startled he nearly spilled his tea. "What?"

"Obviously you left something out. Please tell me." His eyes were pleading, painfully similar to the expression he'd worn at the pool. The one that Sherlock had ignored.

He took a deep breath.

"You and I were… in a relationship. A romantic one." He kept his face down to avoid looking at John's expression. "I loved you… I love you. I didn't want it to happen again in case they used you to get to me." He glanced up.

John sat down. He didn't look surprised, but he didn't look entirely happy either. It was almost impossible to read his face. Sherlock wished he hadn't looked up, but now he couldn't look away.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to feel obliged to continue the relationship, and besides, it was too dangerous."

John said nothing.

"I'm sorry. I know it's stupid, but as everything is basically over anyways I might as well tell you that I still love you. Even though I know you won't want me around after this. I'm sorry. I can go." Sherlock rose from the sofa and left all of his elation over their survival behind him. This was the end, then.

"You… idiot." John's words cut like a knife and Sherlock felt numb and knew everything was crashing down around him. He'd have to find a new flat now, a new blogger… as if anyone could replace John Watson.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned and John was standing too. "I'm sorry, John."

"Sherlock." John's hand closed around Sherlock's wrist. "It's fine."

It took a moment but eventually Sherlock grasped his meaning, and with those two words Sherlock saw a whole new world open up before him with possibilities he'd dreamed of but never seriously considered, a world with just him and John where everything really was fine.

And then this vision was interrupted by John's mouth against his, his lips just as soft and firm as always and Sherlock's hand found its way to its familiar place on the back of John's neck and he leaned down some so John wouldn't be on his tiptoes and they stood there in the middle of the room for ages, just kissing as their tea grew cold behind them.

Sherlock really didn't know what might come next. It could be anything.

But he was ready for it.


End file.
